All I Ever Wanted
by LadySilverFang
Summary: A one-sided love really is the worst kind there is...UK/US, angst, yaoi, language. Inspired by song "All I Ever Wanted" by Basshunter. COMPLETED!
1. Alfred's POV

It was all pointless, wasn't it?

The fights, the arguments, the guns, the blood, the cannons, the death. All in the name of freedom and independence. To break free of your control. To make you weak. To make you humble. To make you _see_. I wanted you to finally accept that I was all grown up. I wanted you to mourn for me, for your loss.

But it didn't work. In less than a decade you had bounced back and become the largest empire in the world, with almost a quarter of the world under your grasp.

A quarter of the world. God. Even now I can't believe you held that much power over us all. South Africa, Sierra Leone, Australia, India, my dearest brother Canada. You had them and so many others under your rule. How many of them would I have better relations with, better understandings with, if I had stayed? For the price of freedom, had I missed out on a wide, diverse family with nations all over the globe? How many brothers and sisters would I have gained?

Would it have made a difference in your mind?

All I wanted was your acceptance. For you to look upon me as an equal. Someone you could depend on, go to for advice, go out and get hammered with. A friend. A lover.

But I'll always be a child to you won't I? A small boy with bright sky blue eyes and wheat coloured hair, who would laugh over the smallest things like a rabbit hopping around. Who would run and jump and be so excited whenever you came to see me. The boy who would always sneak into your room in the night, and crawl under your covers to snuggle next to you after a scary ghost story or a bad dream; and you, in half sleep or no sleep, would wrap your arms around me and hold me close to your warm body.

Or am I still that angry, rebellious teenager who decided he'd had enough and broke out from your control?

Does it matter? Either way you still don't respect me.

Do you have any idea how badly you hurt me? Every time you insult me, or yell at me, it's like a little piece of my heart dies. But you'd never know that. I always cover up the hurt with stupid smiles and laughter, feigning ignorance so you'll never have to see how much your words kill me. Because they do.

You really have no idea how much I love you, do you? How _in_ love I am with you.

Whenever we're together, and you're over me, inside me, I pretend that you're making love to me instead of the hard fucking I've grown so used to. I imagine you kissing me softly, tenderly, with passion and love and desire. I want you to press kisses along my neck as your fingers slowly slide my jacket off me and pull off my shirt, your lips – thin yet so deliciously pink and inviting – kissing my skin, your tongue licking and teasing my nipples until they turned hard under your ministrations.

I imagine you taking me into your mouth, slowly and teasingly, licking and giving light sucks to the tip of my manhood, knowing how good it feels to me. I can see your seductive lips taking more in, until my entire head is inside that wet cave and God it's making me horny just thinking about that. You taking me into your mouth, deeper and deeper until you've got me deep throated and oh it would feel so amazing! And that tongue, it would continue to caress me as your mouth bobbed and sucked on my arousal, warm hand around my sac until I just couldn't take it any longer and came deep inside your orifice.

Your hands, soft and warm and strong, the residual power from your imperialistic days like electric currents through my skin everywhere they touch, as they pull down the rest of my remaining clothes to leave me stark naked. Exposed and layed out for you, like some new kind of dinner treat instead of a person to share your bed with. And your eyes. So deeply green, like the emerald forests that make up your lands, burning with so much passion and love it makes my heart nearly burst inside my chest.

"_You're beautiful."_ you smile. And you smile with such love and tenderness, it makes me melt. And your tongue would slip into another language; one I don't understand, but I know they are words of endearment, encouragement, and calming as you slip your lubed fingers into me, gently preparing me for you. Those lips would lay gentle kisses all over my face as you whispered loving words in an ancient tongue to me, fingers slipping out to be replaced with something larger, and so much more fulfilling.

"_I love you."_

Those are the three words I wish to hear you say above anything else. The three sweetest, most beautiful words in your language (our language, I remind myself; you gave me these words). You would whisper them over and over to me softly, in English, Welsh, Scottish, Cornish, Gaelic, Old English, and any other language you were gifted with knowing, over and over and over as we reached our climaxes together, backs arching and body's dripping with sweat and other fluids. You would clean our bodies, not wanting me dirtied with the evidence of our lovemaking, then you would pull me close to you and snuggle me into your body like you did in my colonial days. Your lips would kiss my hair, and I would fall asleep listening to you whisper those three sacred words to me again.

But... it's all just wishful thinking, isn't it? The foolish dreams of a man, no, a boy still, who only wants to feel that unconditional love you once gave him again, only stronger and more meaningful. Yes, our nations had made peace and even reconnected over the centuries since that fateful day in the battlefield, but our human sides have never bonded again. We only ever call ourselves by our official names now: United States of America, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, America, England.

But I haven't heard my true name come from your mouth for centuries: Alfred. And I cannot bear to bring up your true name, Arthur, either. Because everytime that word is on my tongue, threatening to escape, the fear of absolute total rejection and losing what polite relationship we've achieved being broken again, to never be repaired "Special Relationship" be damned.

So, I stay silent. And I pretend to be the ignorant, self-absorbed nation everyone believes me to be, and I allow myself to be seduced by you into your bed for nights of hard and fast fucking, when my heart cries out for more. Even on the rare occasions you allow me to dominate in bed, I cannot try and go slow and pour my love into your skin, because you always growl out to "get a bloody fucking move on it!".

And I know you are capable of love; I've seen the way you treat other former colonies. Even they get more respect from you than I do. Backclaps to Australia and New Zealand (while careful of the koala on his shoulder), soft caring expressions to Canada (whenever you actually remember him), kissing the back of beautiful India's hand (you must really love each other, I think she stayed with you the longest out of all of us)... hell, you even treat France and Russia better than you treat me, and you hate them! Am I really so repulsive to you that you treat me worse than those two?

One day, maybe I'll have the courage to tell you all this to your face... but right now, as I lay here next to you in your bed, and your breathing is even in sleep, all I am able to do is just stare at your beauty, and kiss each of your eyebrows (which do look good on you, in all honesty), and your lips, and whisper a near silent promise before quietly redressing and slipping out of the room:

"One day, I'll tell you how much I love you. And even if you laugh in my face and rip my heart from my chest, it'll be okay... because I'll finally have my answer, and I'll grant you my lands as my body and soul die."

* * *

Not moments after the door clicked shut, blonde lashes fluttered open, and sleepy emeralds shone out at the empty space next to him, feeling the warm spot where a second body previously lay. Those fingers touched his lips, face an unreadable mask, and his eyes slid shut again.

_And I'll wait until that fateful day comes... Alfred._


	2. Arthur's POV

You're insufferable.

A completely insufferable, moronic, stupid git who is only still here because of pure luck and a twist of fate.

And yet for the life of me, I cannot stop thinking of you.

It's been like that ever since I first saw you. When France and I sailed over to the New World to look at this small new nation Finland and Sweden had discovered, I had no idea what to expect. Based on hearsay I thought it would be some thin, copper-skinned boy with stick straight black and brown eyes, like the Indians that once dominated your land. But no. You were paler, skin not copper yet not white like my own had become, and your hair looked like a wheat field. Your eyes though... your eyes are quite hypnotic, I'm not sure you know. They look just like your sky on a clear day, it's easy to get lost in them–

Ahem, rambling, moving on.

When I saw you hiding in that bush, I knew I had to have you. What can I say, you've always had this magnetism to you, you stupid prat. But I thought I had lost my chance when France brought out his food to bribe you with, so I was honestly surprised that you still chose me. And when you called me brother...

You probably know this already, but growing up I wasn't exactly loved and adored. Europe is a very small continent with many countries living in it and fighting over land, and familial ties didn't stop that. If invaders from mainland countries weren't assaulting me, it was my own brothers. The closest thing to love I had growing up as a child was when France invaded and controlled me, and even then it was hell.

So now you know why I hate that bloody frog so much. You probably didn't know that, did you?

So I fought. I fought tooth and nail, without mercy or restraint, to ensure that no one would ever be able to invade and dominate me again, even if I had to destroy my own kind. Barbaric, but I was determined, and I gained a name for myself and I didn't give a bloody fuck in Hell who I hurt, as long as I didn't become hurt again myself.

And then I met you. At first I just wanted you to piss off France and have one over on him. But when you asked if you could call me brother, and smiled at me so cutely... something in me started. I remember my face feeling warm, and this thumping rumbling in my chest. Later I realized it was my heart, like it had only started beating then. Beating for you.

Before I knew it I had fallen in love with you.

N-not that sick paedophilic kind of love Spain or France had, I-I swear! I-I would never...!

Um, w-where was I again?

I loved you. I truly did, with all my heart. You were so bright and full of life, and you loved so easily and so unconditionally, it was addicting. For the first time in my life I felt what it was truly like to love someone; to care and be cared for, to protect you and teach you things of the world, to give kisses and to receive them as well. I loved how you clung to me whenever I visited, even when I complained you were too heavy. I loved your constant chatter and making you dinner. I loved reading to you and telling you stories of faeries and unicorns. I loved how when you got scared at night you snuck into my room, and I would pretend to sleep and pull you close protectively. You became my everything, and I would have thrown myself to my death for you.

I nearly did, when you decided you didn't love me anymore.

I regret that entire time, I'll let you know. I regret having to tax you so much, I regret fighting you so much because of it. If I could take back that whole century, I would, believe me. Maybe if things had been different, you would still be with me today. Maybe if things had been different, my heart wouldn't ache so much every time I look at you.

You destroyed me that day in the field. Completely destroyed me. The sweet little boy I raised, the child I loved more than anything in the world, the colony I worked so hard to build and the only living soul I allowed myself vulnerable, ruined me. Ripped my heart from my chest and stomped on it until it was ground into the mud beneath my knees. It felt like there was a cold, empty feeling in my chest after that day. Later, after France picked me up and took me home to Britain, I made a vow that never again would I allow myself to love so purely and unconditionally; never would I let anyone get that close to hurt me once more. I learned my lesson.

Since then, I made sure to keep that promise to myself. I gained colonies, I fought wars, I developed into a bigger and better Empire as I gained more and more land and money and power. I was drunk off it. I satisfied my time with travelling to all the new colonies I stole or gotten myself, working on affairs at home, anything I could to busy myself and occupy my time. Even when my King and government decided they would be open to possibly some trade with you, I refused to go to meetings or personally condone it. Because -since I'm being so honest right now- I was afraid that if I was to see you again, all I had worked for would have been for naught and I would break down again.

A tad melodramatic, yes, but true. You brother (the one above you, what's his name... oh, Matthew!) never spoke of you during the War of 1812 even after you burned down York, because he knew how I would feel (he's such a sweet boy). I caught a glimpse of what I thought was you even, and I damn near had a panic attack. To this day I'm not sure if it really was you I saw or one of your soldiers and my mind was fooling me.

Then the Great War happened, and World War Two, and good God, when I saw you I would testify you weren't the same person. You were taller, broader, more filled out. Your face had slimmed out from loss of baby fat, and you were sporting glasses. But that pure naivete was still there, you were still my little America deep inside– ah, no, stop it Arthur, you're going to upset yourself again.

This is why I never act so friendly or familiar. Whenever I look at you, or speak to you, I'm reminded of who you were and what you did, and it hurts so much. You've made me cry more than anyone nation has. That's why I act so cold to you, that's why I always treat you like shit or have seemingly no feelings about you when we engage in carnal relations. Every time we go at it, I force myself to seal my heart away and not to care, because I don't want to feel the pain once again. That's also why I almost never let you top me, or go slow ever, because I _will_ burst into tears.

You said you were going to tell me how much you loved me. Well, I'm still waiting. Would you really give me your lands again if I were to rip your heart out? Would you feel the same pain I did when you ripped out mine? Do you really mean all of that; how do I know that this isn't just a phase and soon you'll want nothing to do with me again? If that were to happen... I just don't know what I'd do.

This dependence I have on you makes me sick.

I'm so tired of all of this.


	3. Third Person POV

Soft thumps sounded as leather shoes stepped on the carpeted hallway floor as the belonging feet walked down the hall. United States– also known as America, or if you were close enough, Alfred, stopped in front of one hotel room door, one he knew quite well by now. He took a deep breath to try and calm the butterflies fluttering in his stomach. This was it, he was finally going to do it. No matter what happened by now, he was going to confess himself to UK– aka England, no, Arthur. If this ended up badly he was willing to risk it; something inside him just _told_ him that today had to be the day to tell him.

Adjusting Texas on the bridge of his nose, he raised his hand and squeezing his eyes shut, rapped on the door. Though he was surprised when he felt the door give way slightly. He opened his eyes and found the room door left ajar. His senses went on high alert. _Arthur would never leave his door open like this, whether he was in or not, _he thought.

Reaching into his jacket and taking a hold of the pistol he carried in there (for security reasons!, he always argued whenever security itself confiscated it), he slowly pushed open the door and rushed inside, pulling the gun out. "Freeze!"

Nothing.

The room was completely empty, and that unnerved him. The bed was unmade, comforter and sheets almost totally thrown on the floor; the dresser drawers were all open and disorganized with clothing sticking out from them instead of being in nearly folded piles; the desk was buried under a mountain of papers and a laptop that could just be seen under them all. There were empty and semi-empty bottles of various alcohols including beer, scotch, and whiskey on the floor to go with the overflowing ashtray on the windowsill. Quickly checking the bathroom, he found it was not only empty as well, but the sink was piled with toiletries and there were dirty and clean towels on the floor.

This was _not_ the hotel room of a prim, proper, high-standing English gentleman who embroidered, gardened, still listened to vinyl records, had his tea cupboard organized by time, day, season _and_ type, read more romance novels than he cared to admit, talked to imaginary faeries, practiced magic in his cellar, and was able to make the strongest nation in the world weak in the knees enough to fuck him ten ways to Black Friday.

This was the room of a man who was disorganized, angry, sad, and in despair.

Alfred hid his gun back in his jacket and backed out of the room in shock, nearly falling on his ass when he stumbled. _Arthur's in trouble, I know it._ He took off down the hall without any clue where he was going or where the British man might be. _I need to save him! I'm the hero, it's what I do!_

He ran around the corner and almost barreled France over in his mad rush. "Ack! Watch where you're going Frenchie!" he yelped, scrambling back and just saving them both from a giant collision in the hallway.

"Excuse moi? Vous avez presque couru dans moi!" the blonde European frowned, clutching his chest that threatened to spill out his fast beating heart. "Wat on Eart' are you een such a rush for, petit Amérique?" he asked.

He had no time to stand here and chitchat with France, Arthur needed him! Wait... France was someone who'd known him for a long time, probably the longest out of anyone! He might know something! "Dude, do you know where Ar– uh, England is?" he asked.

"Angleterre?" the older country asked, blinking.

"Yeah yeah, do you know where he is?" Alfred asked before the other could respond.

"Calm down! 'E iz up on zee roof, I believe." France said, pointing up.

"The roof! Awesome! Thanks Francey-pants!" he yelled, running past him for the stairs before the other could say anything.

France watched as the young superpower ran at top speed for the stairs, sighing and running his hand through his blonde hair. England only went on roofs for privacy after a hard day, but he had no choice. The tension between those two had to come to an end, and a heart to heart might be just what the doctor had ordered.

Smoke waved off the cigarette into the air as the green eyed Brit looked out at what he could see of the city, leaning against the wall and reaching to pull out the stick and blow. He had thought that coming up here for a light would help, but it just left him feeling numb and with a bad aftertaste in his mouth.

The door to the roof burst open and Alfred ran out, stopping and leaning on his knees as he caught his breath. Probably shouldn't have run so fast up all those stairs in hindsight, but once you get heroic adrenalin pumping, nothing could stop it. He stood up, still panting, and looked around before he saw the figure he came to love and fear, leaning against the wall and a thin trail of smoke leading from his mouth.

Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, the superpower took a few steps towards him. Before he could speak, the other man's voice was heard. "I was wondering when you were finally going to come to me."

The boy stopped, fearful for a moment that he actually knew what he was going to say, but steeled his resolve. If he knew or not, he still had to say it himself! "We need to talk, England."

"Talk, huh? Nothing but talk for the last, oh, going on seven decades, right? What good is it, since it brings no better results than fighting." the Englishman mused, taking another drag of the cigarette.

"I'm serious."

He let out a breath, smoke leaving his mouth. "I know you are, I can tell. You always get serious when something happens."

Not knowing exactly how to take that, the American kept forward with his plan and continued, starting to walk slowly closer. "Listen, I know things between us have been... complicated..." this earned an almost quiet, amused snort from the other man, "but the thing is... is..." his mouth suddenly went dry. No, not today, not now!

Silence as neither of them spoke, before it was broken yet again by the older of the two, and he spoke with such emotionlessness, it was almost sad. Lonely, even. "I'm tired, America..."

The younger looked up at him, watching as the cigarette was crushed against the stone top of the wall, and the owner turned around to look at him. He felt his world shake.

England was a mess. His hair, normally messy anyways, was worse so in the front; even his eyebrows weren't in order. His clothes weren't straight against his body in the professional demeanor he tried to portray. But his face... his cheeks were unnaturally flushed, and his eyes appeared swelled and red. Only when Alfred saw the empty bottle of rum that had been hiding from his view did he understand why.

"You're drunk–"

"Sh-shaddup!" he pointed, swaying a bit. Damn it, why was the ground moving? Stupid building. "Don't bloody move!" he snapped when the younger tried to go help him, holding one hand on the cement wall of the room. "I'm so... tired..."

"England..." he tried again, but was again hushed.

"I'm not done talking! I am so... tired... of you. Of whatever the fuck it is we're doing and you're doing and I'm doing and it can all go to fucking hell in a bloody basket for all I bleedin' care."

Alfred swallowed, trying not to do anything, but inside he was having a panic attack. "W-what are you talking about, Art–"

"Don't!" he yelled at him, red eyes narrowed in drunken anger and sadness. "Don't you dare call me that! You lost that privilege a long time ago boy!" he went quiet, some memory playing behind his eyes that the other couldn't see. "We both lost so much long ago..." he murmured.

Now, Alfred wasn't always the shiniest toy in the box, but it was obvious that something bigger was going on here and it wasn't the alcohol talking (or not fully, he wasn't the best at reading atmospheres). "Look, I don't know what's going on, or why you're so sad," another snort from the drunkard, "but I really have to get something off my chest before you continue..."

"Is this where you tell me you love me and give up your lands to me?"

Blue eyes widened in shock, panic, and a little fear. "W-what? H-how did–?"

"Did you _really_–" he interrupted again, staggering as he took a couple steps towards him, pointing accusingly at the golden haired American, "that I would fall for that load of crap? That I would just, fall into your arms like some helpless maiden, swoon, say 'I love you' and we'd make love? Well bollocks to that!" he yelled, and poor Alfred could only stand there and stare in shock, his heart crying out in his chest.

"I gave you everything! You hear me? I gave you every part of me, and how did you thank me? By stabbing me in the back! By turning to that frog eating, wine guzzling bastard and declaring war! I loved you!" he yelled, tears rimming his eyes, "You hear me? I loved you with my whole being, you were the only thing I cared about in the entire world and you destroyed it, threw it away like it was nothing! Well my heart is not nothing you stupid, sodding, spoiled, pigheaded and idiotic brat! It is not nothing a-and I refused to have you rip it in two again...!"

Alfred could only stand and watch as Arthur started to cry, fat tears rolling down his already red face and barely audible words getting through his sobs. He had no idea what to do for a moment, the only time he ever saw him cry was that day in the mud. But he couldn't just stand there like an idiot, he was supposed to be a hero! And how could he ever be Arthur's hero if he didn't do anything? Tightening his fists, he strode over to his teary-eyed love and pulled him into a tight embrace, already having anticipated the struggle that did occur. But he didn't loosen his grip, he just kept holding him as the sad man punched and yelled at him, focusing instead on the thin frame and the wreaking stench of mixed alcohol coming off him instead of the pain until Arthur finally gave up, knees giving out and they sank to the ground, holding the broader male as he sobbed into his jacket.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Arthur... I never meant for this to happen... I didn't know you were still so sad, please don't cry..." he murmured, holding the older gentleman close and struggling himself not to cry. Heroes don't cry dammit! He tightened his hug. "I didn't know you were still upset about that..."

"O-of course I a-am, y-you stupid fool..." he hiccuped, clinging to the soft leather of his jacket. "D-did you t-think I-I could get over that...?"

"It was so long ago..." he started, pulling back a little to look at him. "I'm sorry I hurt you. But you were being unfair, and treating me like a child... I wanted to prove that I could be a strong nation on my own, equal to you and the other Europeans. I wanted you to love me as an equal and not as a child or pet."

Arthur hesitantly raised his glassy eyes to look at him. "Y-you were never a pet... you..." he swallowed the lump in his throat, "you were the only thing I'd ever cared for..."

He pressed their foreheads together softly, wiping his thumb along the tear stains of his cheeks. "This isn't how I'd hoped to confess... I'm really sorry, Arthur. Even if I have to say it every day for the next thousand years, I'll do so until you believe me."

Green eyes looked up to meet blue. "Just... don't give up on me. It's going to be hard to... forget and move on."

"Never. Heroes don't give up on those they love." he smiled. "I'll be patient."

Now Arthur was able to let a smile out. "That'll be a feat for you."

They both let out light chuckles, before closing the distance and slowly pressing their lips together. Short, a peck really, but it might be the most romantic kiss either of them have had.

"I love you, Arthur."

"I know... Alfred."

The younger beamed a little, hugging him. "Let's go back inside." he said, helping the other up when he got a nod and wrapping an arm around him to help his balance, guiding him to the door off the roof. It wasn't how he'd hoped it would go, but this was a start. Maybe he could get a happily ever after all. It might take a while, but he promised he'd be patient, and he always kept his promises.

_In the end though_, he thought with a smile as he held Arthur close as they went through the door, _I still got what I wanted._

* * *

**Sooo... yeah. Final chapter. Sorry if the ending's cheesy, I just really wanted to get this done and uploaded already. It's been months. THANK YOU to everyone who faved and reviewed and pushed me to keep going with this, you guys rock!**


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